


A Lorne Thing

by ljs



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-19
Updated: 2010-09-19
Packaged: 2017-10-12 00:16:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/118725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ljs/pseuds/ljs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Season Five fic, set shortly after "In Harm's Way." Written for Caro in the Winter 2004 Book of Days challenge ficathon.</p><p>Lorne has a bad, bad day, and needs to talk about it. Warnings for abuse of Barbra Streisand and excessive camp. (Well. It's a Lorne Thing.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Lorne Thing

Hey, Manuel! Manuel, my little habanero, give Papa Lorne one of the meanest, baddest margaritas your fine hands can shake together, okay? And don’t stint on the tequila, baby. Papa Lorne’s had a bad, bad day.

What? Oh, I can’t really – well, here, if you sit yourself down on this side of the bar and have a drink too, I’ll tell you all about it. Sure, take a break, you look like you need one. First three margaritas are on me.

But let me get a sniff of that drink first, sugar, so I know we’re just a couple of friends sharing some salty-rimmed tequila goodness. Sober people can’t appreciate me the way I should be appreciated – I learned that running my own club, oh years ago. Caritas, that was its name.

Mmm. That’s some good stuff, Manuel. You drink up and do yourself proud. But, uh – I hate to ask – could you hum me a few bars of something too? It’s a thing I have. My staff calls it the Lorne thing.

Yes, that’s my name. Or as much of my name as you’re going to get, sweetcheeks.

Oh, "La Cucharacha." Inspired choice. Very kitschy. Hopefully not descriptive of the health standards in the actual kitch _en_ –

No, sorry. Little joke from Papa Lorne. You’ve got a lovely vibrato, by the way. Now you have a few sips, and I’ll have a lot of sips, and we’ll be shiny, happy...people. We’ll say ‘people,’ anyway. ‘Cause people who need people are the luckiest people in the world.... Sorry. That’s right, my little pepper, more of the Lorne thing. Give me another margarita, and I’ll sing it for you.

What– you want to know why I’m here, honey? Here in this nice little Mexican joint on Beverly, home to the best margaritas, worst food, and most drunken D-girls and agency-mail-room boys this side of the Hills? Long story. Long, long story.

Okay, maybe not that long. You drink up a little more, and I"ll tell you.

‘Kay. Just another morning at my place of employment – Wolfram and Hart, baby, you heard of it? Law firm. Big law firm. Big, Evil law firm with a couple of links right to hell – yes, that’s right, there’s a branch in Mexico City. There’s a branch everywhere, and I do mean _everywhere_. ‘Cause it’s hell. It’s lawyers.

Where I work, though, we’re trying not to fulfill the stereotype. For example, I may seem like one who’s all a simple cartoon outline, ready for anyone to color in between the lines, but that’s just another stereotype, isn’t it. My boss and his handpicked crew, of whom I’m so happy to be one– we may be in league with the Devil, but we like to twist his tail as we go.

You’re exactly right, sweetcheeks. We’re _estupido_.

Hmm, that salt burns a little, doesn’t it? I could use a little tequila to make it sting even better.... Where was I? Oh, this morning. I had a weekly staff meeting – I head up the Entertainment division. It’s a job made for me. To succeed in this dark and twisted Wood we call Holly, you gotta be a fella who’s not going to die even after his head’s been cut off.

Private joke, baby. Drink up.

Right, staff meeting. So there I am, feeling blue, wearing blue. I think green and blue go together too well, you know? I try to keep ‘em apart as best I can. Color needs to be bright when you color between the lines....Anyway. So, my boss Angelcakes has been like a Pip without Gladys lately – singing the backup to a song without a melody, doing the whoo-whoo on time but it don’t mean nothin’ without love. He does fight the good fight, sugar, but he needs to have his eyes open when he does. I’ve been worried about him, about us all.

Yes. Because of the _estupido._

So I come into the office this morning, get my headset from my precious little Danny – best assistant a guy could have, all heart even if it’s not in his ass, and I’m not one to judge that way anyhow – and start taking my calls before the meeting I’ve got to run in a few minutes. It’s winter, so you know what that means for an Entertainment guy in Los Angeles.

Yep, it’s the season of death. The season of cancellation, before the sweet renewal news and tender pilot shoots begin to pop up all over. Ugly, ugly business. Ugly season. _Memories light the corners of my mind, misty water-color memories..._

Oh goodness, sorry about the singing. My little condition from this morning must not have worn off yet. More songbird action may hiccup out, baby, pay me no mind, unless it’s Aretha. I do a mean Re-re, if I do say so myself.

It’s a Lorne thing.

In between all the weeping and gnashing of teeth that no complimentary spa outing or certificate for yoga-and-a-low-carb-muffin will ease, taking calls from the furthest outposts of civilisation – I’m talking Woodland Hills and beyond, honey, and don’t get me started on Orange County, where there is no ‘the’ – I see Angelcakes and his boy Spike there.

Who’s Spike? Honey-mustard, I have no words to describe Spike. Okay, a couple words – the boy needs to get himself to a salon, that bleached hair is _tired,_ and maybe he could try a red shirt or something to relieve the Goth-black – but otherwise he’s a Wild One, a skinny little Marlon Brando full of pain and attitude and soul. Don’t forget the soul, now. Angel and Spike have ‘em, and they’re pretty. The souls, I mean, although the boys don’t hurt the eyes.

Yes, I know, still souled in L.A. Go figure.

So Angel and Spike are toe-to-toe by the elevators, screaming at each other about an imminent morning visit from the Visimiks, really unpleasant little demons who monopolize the coffee trade. Starbucks? The Coffee Bean? Yeah, totally Visimik, and you don’t want to know what additional substances they put in their joe. Wolfram and Hart is trying to stop them, but... don’t drink coffee, baby, it’s bad for you.

I could have a little more margarita, though – there, you’re a love. Fix yourself one while you’re at it, too.

Right, so Angel’s got his mad-brood on, yelling at Spike: "We know what we’re doing," "Don’t kill the clients unless I say so," yadda yadda. Spike’s yelling back about destiny and Champions and the joys of blood-letting for the forces of good. Well, they’re kind of family, you can’t expect them to agree. You know, take my mother....actually, please, for the love of Sylvester, take my mother.

Oh you’ve got a mother too, honey? Not like mine, I’m betting. Not like mine.

Back to Angel and Spike. When I walk by, I try to share a little love, but they’re so enjoying the low growls and eye-fucking – whoops, did I say that? what’d you put in this drink, sugar, and can I have a little more? – that I don’t have the heart to really interfere. It makes them happy, if not _perfectly_ happy, which is a key distinction for us. However, I do tell Harmony, Angel’s assistant, who’s just a vicious little love in pink, that she might have the choicest mink-blood ready for them both for a wee mid-morning snack.

Mink-blood. Yes, that’s what I said. And baby, you’ve got just a trace of lime-pulp on your teeth– but you keep it, it suits you.

Leaving Angelcakes and Spike to their bondage, bond _ing_ , I keep on keepin’ on to my meeting. I can see Gunn, our tasty legal eagle, on his way to Angel and Spike anyhow – he’ll take care of them, help them stay on track. Maybe. He’s gone a little more into the belly of the beast than the rest of us, I’m afraid.

Well, Danny’s at my heels, following along like a good little puppy, and behind him is a new trainee for my department. Luscious, earnest type named Natty West, writer type with an upgraded PDA attached to his fingers (not literally; in my job I need to qualify). But I’m not upset by that.

Yet.

We’re almost to the meeting room when I get a buzz in my ear – the special line. It’s a prince of hell, who goes by the name of Sweet. Sweet by name, bitter by nature, but damn, can that boy dance. No, this time I mean it literally. When that demon dances, you’re _damned_.

So Sweet’s singing in my ear, something about a lapsed contract and am I not supposed to be sending him Simon Cowell any day now, and Manuel, my hand to my heart, I should be listening but I’m not. I’m still thinking about the ugly season, and cancellations, and how my poor Angelcakes and our team need a purpose.

And Sweet figures out I’m not listening. Yeah. Don’t diss a singing prince of hell, is my advice to you. Makes Harvey Weinstein look like a pretty baby _kitten_.

There’s a rat-tat-tat of tap shoes I can hear all the way on my end of the line, and a high note that even I can’t reach, and....well, let’s just say that if people think I’m a bit of a diva before, they haven’t heard anything yet.

Not knowing what I’ve been hit with, I make nice with the Sweet prince – promise him a couple of faded boy bands and Jessica Simpson as an appetizer. He laughs, a Sammy-Davis-Junior-in-hell laugh – not that the Candy Man’s in hell, no, baby – and tells me that he already knows he’s going to be satisfied and full.

Eek, I say, it’s raining portents. But he hangs up, still laughing.

And I go into the meeting anyway. _Muy estupido_.

There are the same folks around the table every Wednesday morning. First, cute little Sally, who liaises, emphasis on the ‘lie,’ with the record-company people. Years ago she set up David Geffen and – but no, not even I will gossip about _him_. Anyway, she’s got a project going with a couple of our finest superstar artists for a Super Bowl half-time show, I’m still waiting to hear more about it. She’s working that with Evelyn, the TV guy, who’s got an in at MTV. No, he’s really a guy, English. The name’s pronounced like those wacky Brits do; our charming, stubbly research-god Wesley explained this to me carefully after I misspoke myself and almost got a katana in my forehead. Wolfram and Hart’s not a weapons-free zone, honey; the previous managers believed in violence in the workplace. Who else? There’s Morey, who represents the writers we have on the books, poor bastard; he’s got that assignment because the Senior Partners wanted to punish him. And there’s precious Vlad who works with the movie types. He’s got a lot of gypsy tricks, that one, which you need in our business, especially when it comes to the studio’s accounting practices. We’re a happy little band, if I do say so myself, and they just need a little guidance to do good, not evil. Okay, a lot of guidance.

Oh I feel a crying jag coming on– can you pour me another, precious? That’s right. I need a little pick-me-up before I embark on this part of the story.

‘Kay. When I sit down, for some reason I don’t turn to Danny and have him warm up the room the way I always do. Instead, I open my mouth and start to sing. Now I’m a little songbird around the office all the time, with special emphasis on the works of Aretha, Patti Labelle, and Evelyn Champagne King, but this isn’t like that – I have no control over what comes out of my mouth. I scat the standard greeting: what’s said in this room stays in the room, let’s get some work done, darlings, remember to breathe in and out and come from a place of beauty, la la la.

They look at me, and although they’re trying to hide it, I can feel the morale drop faster than Ben Affleck’s Hollywood currency after Gigli. They’re still a little uneasy around me after an ugly little incident at a company party – anyway, that doesn’t matter.

So I try again to ask Sally to start talking about her exciting Super Bowl project, but before I can frame words, Manuel my sweet, I break out in song like La Streisand. Now don’t get me wrong, Barbra is the queen diva of divas, Yentl-icious and more. I don’t worship at the Church of the Nose, and we don’t represent her – apparently _she_ scared the Senior Partners, back in the day – but you have to love Barbra, don’t you?

Okay, not the remake of A Star is Born – fella’s got to have some principles. Oh all right, I do a mean "I Believe in Love," ‘cause _"Feeling love is feeling good"_ expresses my creed, but that’s all. Now don’t interrupt any more. Maybe you need a little more tequila too, sweetcheeks?

Where was I? Embodying Streisand, that’s right. So I do the first verse and chorus of "Second Hand Rose," then turn the meeting over to Danny who rises to the occasion like it’s a revival of Forty-second Street. I can’t even listen to the great gossip Evelyn’s using against Aaron Spelling to help one of our clients escape cancellation, I’m so busy trying not to throw my arms out and belt out a ballad like I’m on a boat in the middle of New York Harbor.

But I do notice something off-key. Natty West is hunched over his little hand-held, typing something in a very suspicious way. I’m sensing badness and betrayal right there even without him humming – because he’s not supposed to be taking notes, Danny does that – and I’m ready to get in there and do a little Swimming with Sharks tap dance on his ass, which is _not_ a Lorne thing. You ever see that movie? One of Kevin Spacey’s lesser-known gems: he’s a boss from hell, who gets the job done but spreads no love at all. Lorneis all about the love, my little honey-mustard.

Oh, memo to self – see if Angelcakes has been watching that and drawing the wrong lessons. Poor little Harmonica, I feel for her, at least when she’s not stuffing me in closets. The closet is no place for Papa Lorne.

Sorry....Badness and betrayal, right. I watch Natty West taking down sensitive information, and suddenly Barbra, the Dark Side, is taking over. I jump across the conference table and grab at the Palm Pilot like it’s Donna Summer’s hair, singing " _Enough is enough, I can’t go on, I can’t go on no longer_." Little Natty falls down, whimpering, and I take hold of his unit–

What? Manuel, poppet, you have a dirty mind. No more margarita for you. More for me, though....can I? Little more salt? There we go.

Okay, I’m looking at the Palm Pilot, and what do I see? The little scamp is trying to dramatize everything he’s seen that day, company secrets all over the place, but a heightened reality. You wouldn’t believe the way he describes Angel and Spike – I don’t think even Showtime would buy the rights to this. "Queer as Folk" my beautiful green ass, this takes everything to the next level. But it’s satire, I think.

Of course with the Streisand vocalization problem, I can’t actually ask West what’s going on in his pointy little head. So I turn to Danny and manage to show him enough to start the interrogation. Meanwhile, I’ve got Sally, Evelyn, Morey, and Vlad staring at me, waiting for me to begin the next number –

At which point a racket like nothing on earth or in hell starts up in the lobby. Just screaming, and growling, and I can barely hear the alarms going off because of all the noise. But I can hear Visimik in the mix.

And the spell that Sweet’s laid on me propels me out of the conference room, singing at the top of my lungs, " _Hey Mr Arnstein, here I am..."_

I know. I know, honey-mustard. Who starts in the middle of a song? It was the spell, I’m telling you.

Anyway, I launch into _"I march my band out_ ," and slide down the bannister – which is hell on my suit, by the way – into a melee en tableau. The Visimik demons, these little sub-ferrety creatures, have their swords out and have been advancing on Angel and Spike, screaming about contracts and the failure to perform, but my grand entrance has stopped them.

Unfortunately, it’s stopped Angel and Spike too. They’ve gotten themselves weapons from somewhere, but they’re frozen – and when those vamps go still, sweetcheeks, they’re not moving. But I know they need to be protecting all of us, protecting the world. That’s what they do. It’s their purpose.

With every ounce of control I’ve got, I dance in between the pretty Champions, wrestle the song back to an earlier verse – " _I gotta fly once, I’ve gotta try once, Only can die once, **right sir**_ **...."** and boot them toward the Visimiks.

What’s important about that lyric? Oh, well, pumpkin, gotta love the irony. In Hollywood you can always die more than once, and my boss and Spike should know that better than anyone else. After winter comes the spring, you know. Out of death and cancellation comes the new growth.

And damn that tequila to hell, or to a year-long engagement in the smallest theater in Branson, Missouri, for making me maudlin. Maudlin is not a Lorne thing.

So Angelcakes and Spike do their warrior deal and subdue the evil coffee demons, accompanied by me in full Streisand. The last one goes down to my very best " _Nobody, but nobody is going to rain on my paaa-raade_ ," and poof, we’ve got a lobby of vanquished java junkies. Then Gunn swoops in, quotes law after law to justify our stopping their wicked ways, and vanquishes them again. We’ve got quivering little ugly guys on the lobby floor.

It’s probably not what we should be doing, baby, even I know that. Not as _estupido_ as I seem. The world won’t be saved this way. But it’s something.

I dust off my suit and dance back upstairs to my staff, who’re all watching from above. And do you know what they do, Manuel? They clap. They give me a round of applause. And precious little Danny says to Natty West, "See, that’s our boss. He’s a fabulous entertainer and a great humanitarian." He might be exaggerating about the last, of course.

At that moment I get a call on the special line – I haven’t turned the phone off,, you never turn the phone off in this business. It’s Sweet, laughing that Sammy-Davis-Junior-in-hell laugh. Seems I’ve amused him so much that he’s willing to lift the spell and forgo the ritual burning-to-ash which is its traditional end.

Because, he says, that’s what all Wolfram and Hart employees do in the end anyway.

No, that’s it, Manuel. That’s my story. The tequila hasn’t helped as much as I thought it would – although you look pretty happy, my little habanero! Yes indeed, lime-pulp suits you – and you’ve got a little salt, right at the corner of your mouth. Mmm.

Oh, Natty West? He’s out on the patio. He was going about things all messed up, more wrong than Tammy Faye Bakker and Ron Jeremy together in a hot tub, so I sat him down this afternoon and had him sing for me. He’s got a real future as a writer, that boy, a talent, so I’ve just introduced him to a couple of agents who hang out here at the Coyote. He doesn’t need to be getting himself in trouble at Wolfram and Hart, you know, baby? I just wish I could do the same for Danny. Wish I could do the same for Angelcakes and my friends. Set them on the right path.

I used to help people like that all the time, when I had my old club. Caritas. It was a Lorne thing.

Why, yes, sugar, I think I _will_ have another margarita.

 


End file.
